What Would They Think
by madamsnape78
Summary: Hermione and Snape have an unusual relationship. They find themselves reflecting on it on the night before the Final Battle. Oneshot.


A?N: This is a bit different since it was written without dialog, but it was an idea I had and wanted to write it down. It's told in alternating points of view, first Snape and then Hermione.

* * *

She was a Mudblood; he was a Death Eater. She was to be a savior of the wizarding world and he, according to most people, was helping in the destruction of it. She was the best friend of the Chosen One, he was the trusted advisor of the Dark Lord. She was a Gryffindor and he had been Head of Slytherin.

So why, at every Order meeting, did he find himself sitting next to her? Why, at every Death Eater meeting, did he wish he were back at Grimmauld Place? And why, when he had long since been sure he was born without a heart, did he now find a pain in his chest when thought of her.

It had begun after an Order meeting, not long after he had been cleared of the death of Dumbledore. Everyone still treated him with suspicion at best and outright fear at worst. He told himself that he didn't care that people shrunk from his gaze, that they shook with fear when he walked past. After all, he had never cared what people thought of him. So why, if he didn't care, was it such a relief when she walked up to him, looked him in the eye and welcomed him back? Why did he actually accept her offer of tea? The offer that surely she only made to be polite and never expected him to accept.

They had sat across the table from each other, not speaking; sipping their tea quietly and enjoying the silence. After half an hour of peace, Potter had come in telling her he needed to talk and giving him a look of anger and hatred. Yet, at every Order meeting after that, when everyone had left the kitchen, he would remain in his chair and she would pour him some tea and they would sit in silence.

It had been months after that first evening that the silence was first broken. She had spoken first, of course. He would have been content to continue on indefinitely without ever saying a word, but apparently she did not feel the same way.

At first his replies were curt, one word answers to her nosey questions. She did not seem concerned by this, much to his annoyance. When she was not asking questions, she was keeping up a running commentary on the Order and its members. She gave thoughts on the most recent events (as if he cared!); told funny stories (didn't she know he didn't laugh?) and spoke of her own concerns (did she think he was her friend?).

Yet somehow, even though he told himself he should be annoyed, he found her talking even more comfortable than the silence. And so, one day he talked back; more than one word, sometimes two… five… ten. It was never many; it was not in his nature to say much. But she listened to every word he said. So the more she listened the more he talked, until one day they even had what could be considered a conversation.

But then finally the war was coming to an end. They both knew it. The Horcruxes had all been destroyed and the plans for the Final Battle were complete.

On the night before the Final Battle, the Order had one last meeting. And when it was over, he stayed in his seat and she poured him some tea and sat across from him. Once again it was silent. The only sounds in the room were the sounds of their breathing and the sipping of tea. It seemed that for once words had failed even her and she sat staring at her mug as if she could read her future in it.

As the minutes ticked by, he found himself looking at her, studying her. Her face was thinner than it had been when she was in school, more mature. Her eyes, although he could not see them now, had the look of a woman many years older. She had seen far too much for her young age, yet they were not hard and bitter as, perhaps, they should have been. Instead they contained all the empathy and warmth as they always had. Her mouth was turned down as it almost always was these days. He found himself reaching back in his memory to find a time when she smiled and looked happy; he had trouble finding a time.

Without realizing when he was doing, he stood up and walked around to the other side of the table. He reached out and pulled her hand away from her mug. She looked up at him, surprised and studying him. She opened her mouth to speak when he pulled her to her feet, cupped the back of her neck with his hand and kissed her. It was not a tender kiss, or a gentle one, but it was the only way he knew how to express what he felt and she seemed to accept it for what it was.

As he turned to back her against the counter, he felt his Dark Mark burn and he broke away. He gave her one last intense look, said nothing, and walked away. But as he made his way out the front door of Grimmauld Place, he could not help the small smile that crept onto his face. A Death Eater kissing a Mudblood. What would the Dark Lord think of that?

* * *

He was a Death Eater; she was a Muggleborn. Of course, he wasn't really a Death Eater, although given the way he was treated by everyone it seemed she was the only one who remembered that. He was an outcast and she was loved by everyone. He was a hero, but yet she had to defend him time and time again.

She had always tried to defend those who needed it, and so it was natural that she was the one to step up and welcome him back. He had looked at her suspiciously; she supposed that was only natural. Yet he had not been mean or cruel as she expected he would. When she had offered him tea, she was only being polite; surely he would not take her up on the offer. She nearly fell over when he agreed.

They had sat in silence that first night, and for many nights after. She was sure he was miserable and didn't want to be there. Yet after every meeting there he was, sitting in his chair, waiting for her.

It wasn't in her nature to be quiet for long. Each time it became harder and harder to remain silent until finally she couldn't stand it any longer and had spoken. She was sure he would be rude, say something to make her leave. His answers had been curt, but then, when hadn't they been? But now that she had spoken she couldn't take it back and she began to fill up the time with endless chatter.

She was sure after that, that he would not come back. But yet he did. And he let her ramble on about such boring and silly nonsense that even she was annoyed by it. She found herself pouring out all her concerns and worries. She knew he did not care, yet he let her continue and eventually, he began responding back.

Yet, the war was coming to an end and, in a way, she dreaded it. Regardless of the outcome, it would bring an end to their strange relationship that she had come to enjoy, even depend on, during those evenings in the kitchen.

This is why, on the eve of the Final Battle, she could not bring herself to speak. It was perhaps the first time in her life that she could not force words past her lips. Instead she sat, staring at her mug, trying desperately to think of something to say.

She could feel him staring at her, studying her, but she could not lift her eyes to look at him. She was afraid of what she would see if she did; she was even more afraid of what she wouldn't see. She could not bear to look at his cold, unfeeling eyes and realize that this time together had been nothing more that a convenience to him. That she was nothing more than someone who he spoke to because there was no one else.

In fact, she was so lost in her thoughts and self pity, that she did not notice that he had got up and moved around to her side of the table until she felt his hand upon hers. She looked up, surprised. And when her eyes met his, they were not cold or unfeeling and she felt the tension in her heart begin to lessen. She was about to open her mouth to speak; to say everything she was feeling and afraid of, when he pulled her roughly to her feet and kissed her. It was not the kind of romantic kiss that a girl dreams about. It was not even the passionate kind of kiss that a woman fantasizes over. It was hard and angry but she knew it was all he had to give and she was glad for it.

Then, just as he had pressed her against the counter, her knees feeling week, she felt him stiffen suddenly, as if in pain, and he broke away. He looked down at her for one more moment and she saw in his gaze everything she needed to know. And then he was gone.

As she sat back down, she raised her hand to her lips and smiled a little to herself. Hermione Granger kissing Severus Snape. What would Harry and Ron think of that?


End file.
